


A farewell in several unequally improbable parts

by greendotsandwords



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen, Horror, Lovecraftian, Mind Games, Scary, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greendotsandwords/pseuds/greendotsandwords
Summary: A Worgen war veteran has her life in pieces. Haunted by nightmares, she tries to find their source and put an end to them. A farewell to a retired character.
Relationships: None
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. The Kite

A farewell in several unequally probable parts

I

The day was clear for a change. Still windy, but that was expected from Boralus. A perfect day to try out a kite, or so the children had thought. The lone woman sitting on one of the piers looked up, following the rhomboid in the sky. One moment it was peaceful and controlled, a flutter of ribbons tied to the bigger kite. A moment later, a combination of the wind and an unfortunate tug made it snap. It floated away, drawing wild, frivolous shapes in the air, more like a bird of paradise than a toy gone rogue.  


It could almost be surmised that kites and people had a lot in common, in certain circumstances. Sometimes, even a good, honest tether was not enough. Sometimes enough pushing and pulling could cause an irreversible snap. There was no one next to her, no one with whom she could share the sudden thought, so voicing it outside her head seemed pointless. Children knew better than to bother her. They quickly learned to leave her to her own devices after that one time she shifted and chased one of them on all fours, snapping her deadly jaws like a rabid hound until the cornered boy soiled himself in fear and curled up in an alley. She was been lucky the guards didn't throw her into jail for that, for sure. Then again, she hadn't hurt the child, and Kul Tirans were made of sterner stuff... They should be, having been descendants of -Gilnean- colonists, after all.  


She reached up to rub the left side of her face, scarred and never properly healed. The pain was always there, sometimes dulled, at other times radiating some unholy warmth into her entire skull, making it hard to focus, hard to think. Hard to just... be. Rum helped. Not always, and in excess it would only make matters worse, but it was a reliable escape. One that didn't leave her alone, unless she threw the bottle away. She slept very little. Being constantly tired, groggy, and have the nipping cold of a body devoid of rest keeping her conscious was vastly preferable to the images her mind created and animated whenever she dared to dream.  


The pain of regret was something that dulled the physical aches in a delicious manner. All that could have been. She remembered the people who trusted her. People she had personally recruited and offered the stylised moonclaw badges. It was her unit. Her responsibility. Something she couldn't bear, haunted by the mocking voice of self-doubt. And so it was back to the Eastern Kingdoms. Investigation work. Undercover. Dismantling gangs and the like. Except it turned out to be corrupt, disgusting. No one could be trusted. Not any more. Months of work turned into dust. Another failure.  


Money was tight. Working nights at one of the questionable establishments helped, for sure, but it didn't allow for a cosy, spacious flat, worthy of a lieutenant. Was it a sign of weakness to think fondly about the little luxuries of life? She found work, though. Claws were an excellent deterrent for patrons who were too drunk to enter and great tools for removing those too stubborn to exit. At the end of the day, she was no better than them. The only difference was that she knew it was a bit less embarrassing to stay indoors and wait out the drunken stupor. They paid her and didn't ask that much about who she was. The face was a good letter of recommendation.  


Rent went up. Oh well. She still had some things she could get rid of without shedding so much as a tear. Still, she was hesitant. Her left hand idly traced the three-pronged scar, cutting into the brow, forking on the cheek below. They even gave her a medal for it. Perhaps it would fetch a nice price. The rum she could get for it was worth more than the unexpected feeling of recognition, that day in the cathedral. In her right hand, she held a round medal, silver, with three daggers crossed and a purple and blue ribbon underneath. She turned it over in her hand to read the inscription one last time before she headed inside the pawnshop.

“To Alystoria Greencroft. For distinguished service in the field of covert operations, theatre intelligence management, scouting and ranger duties. For the valiant defence of Alliance territory in the Stonetalon Mountains when faced with unprovoked Horde aggression and unholy magic.”

She wondered whether there was a medal powerful enough to rid her of nightmares. Silence the doubts, heal her body and spirit from the horror that whispered the darkest of thoughts, shattered the strongest of bonds and broke the mightiest of warriors. Even if it could pay for a comfortable life, away from it all, would it have been worth it?


	2. The Wreckage

II

“No matter how high the wall, knowledge will always be your window to the world,” is what father used to say. The house would always smell of books. Old and new alike, filling the shelves top to bottom. It was a small library, compared to the one he worked at, but it almost seemed the man was never not at work. And the house was always so quiet. So very quiet. Deathly so, especially after mother... wasn't there any more. With her, there was at least some warmth, as if the crackle of the hearth was louder, and the embers in it more fiery and vibrant in colour. Without her everything turned colder, sadder, and more quiet. Father, too.

Being virtually alone became a natural state of mind for her. Loudness was distracting and irritating. Sometimes to the point, where even her peers at school reminded her of a bunch of raving apes, while they were simply energetic Gilnean children, enjoying one of those rare, clear days, playing outside the school grounds during the lunch break.

It was an odd memory, she thought to herself, gazing at the waves crashing on the shore. The part of her that still held on to hope and life needed that moment of reflection, the quiet contemplation of nature's beauty, of life's roundabout order. It was like a breath one would take before diving, and in that situation, it was rather understandable. The beach housed a wreckage of a large Kul Tiran ship. She wasn't sure whether it was a galleon or a man-o'-war, as the navy and its peculiarities were never particularly interesting to her. 

What was important, was that the vessel had been big enough to make quite a literal and metaphorical impact when crashing during an ill-fated storm. The damage opened up a cave, perhaps even a system of caves beneath the old, abandoned monastery of the Tidesages. Whether the two were connected in terms of causality was unknown, but the local farmers were reluctant to talk about the place as anything else than where the cursed wind howls. Poetic, she had thought.  
The hull of the ship was old, damp, and darkened, at least from the outside. A tapestry of barnacles adorned the rotting board as if it were a negative of a blank canvas, creating something of an abstract landscape, with starfish where stars shouldn't be, at least if one was to follow the logic of child-like paintings. Stars were up, grass was down, the sun was a fragment of a radius tucked away in the corner of the parchment. Well, not at the same time as the stars, obviously.

It was another odd memory. Drawing. Glancing whether mother was looking. She'd always smile and nod, pat her head. Her hands were always soft, and her blue gaze patient and loving. And sad. Distant, but in a way she didn't want little Aly to see. Father never looked at her pictures. Especially after Mother was gone. But even at that moment, more than two decades after her death, she still couldn't understand what was the demon that pushed her mother that far. Far enough to find herself on the other side of the rope. She wasn't a soldier, she wasn't even subjected to the horrors of the Cataclysm, the Worgen tearing the city apart... What was it? No matter how familiar the sensation of poorly concealed sadness was to her, instead of bringing her closer to the ghost of her mother, it would sow dissent instead, even if they had no way of arguing about their suffering in any way. Soon, perhaps, but not just yet.

For now, the wreckage, and what had been hiding below were waiting on her. There was no time to waste, as the low tide would likely make it accessible enough to enter... but once in the tunnels, she'd either have to drown, find a pocket of air, or wait out the high tide to get out again. It was the only hint she had on the shadowy presence that had been haunting her for way too long.

A long, gnarled purple finger, with an equally uncultured sharp, jagged nail. It was beckoning her from the darkness. It promised a reckoning. It promised relief. It wanted her to come north, to the very last shores of Stormsong Valley. It felt like a pilgrimage of sort. An ironic farewell, as she walked through the rolling plains, recovering from Horde bombs and fire, once again able to grow food and flowers alike. She decided to not take a horse with her. It would have been cruel for the poor animal to await her return, and the probability of it waiting until starvation or a predator came first was not something she wanted to entertain. After all, a horse could not be held responsible for her nightmares, for the morbid curiosity of all things shadowy, forbidden, and draining one's sanity.

But she had sworn. To herself, to rid the world of as many of those as she could, to the best of her ability. She was no hero of legend, capable of using artefacts of old to slay gods and titans alike. She had a salt-stained long-coat, two enchanted daggers of elven make, and her unreliable wits to guide her through. Oh, and a lamp. The lamp was a big help.  
Whatever was left of the wreckage was either flushed out into the sea by the high tide or had been meticulously plundered by the local scavengers. The inside of the overturned hull was like an empty husk. The low tide started some time ago... but not that long for the air inside to feel heavy, warm... and dry. Perhaps it was a testament to the Kul Tiran art of shipbuilding in all its glory, but it didn't stop an unpleasant shiver from running down her spine. She could hear her own snarl, almost getting startled at how unexpectedly it came from her throat. Her own instinct was warning her. She looked over her shoulder at the opening in the hull. Judging from the colour of the sky, the sun was almost laid to rest for the day. It made her stop and gaze at the darkening horizon. If she went further down, would she ever see the sun again? She had to find out. She had to know. She had to. What was the point of looking at the sun, if there was no respite from the nightmares that kept plaguing her? She bid the sky goodbye with a brief smile. A dorky gesture, for sure, but there was no other face around to exchange pleasantries with.

The empty hull was, quite fortunately for the intrepid explorer, embedded into the foundation of the monastery at a gentle angle, making the descent safe, for the time being. She moved quietly, her training adjusting the steps before she could even consciously think about how to put her feet forward. She decided to put off the shifting for as long as she could, especially if the passages were small and winding, easier to slip through in her human form. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in what her father had said to her, all those years ago. But he was mistaken about one tiny detail. Knowledge was a trapdoor. Or an old, brittle board. A wrong step could lead to a painful fall. A fall into a deep, dark place where hoping for the presence of a window was a laughable display of naivete. 

She knelt down by the trapdoor and set her lamp on the oddly dry floor next to her. Her ears perked up, making her tilt her head to the side as she put her head to the ground, but not directly on the hinged, moving part that could easily be used from the other side to bludgeon her. Skittering. Clattering. Another shiver ran down her spine. Still kneeling, she drew one of her daggers, a beautifully made, slightly jagged, silver and blue blade with a dark red handle. It always made her feel just that tiny bit more at ease. She was so used to them that they truly felt like extensions of her hands, or claws, depending on the situation.

With a blade in one hand, she slowly began lifting the trapdoor, expecting a horror to reach out from it and try grabbing her the moment she gave it even a tiny bit of quarter. Yet no such thing took place. Alystoria frowned and retrieved a rather large crab from underneath the wooden hatch. It looked lost, the pincers moved slowly, as if the animal was weakened, hungry maybe. The woman set it to the side and shooed it away in the direction of the hole in the hull, “Go, go before whatever lurks down there turns you into an unholy mass of tentacles or something...” she hummed, taking a moment to watch the crab depart in the desired direction, clicking and clacking as it moved sideways towards the dying light. It was probably smarter than her in taking that direction, and that was a thought that made her frown deeply.

She stabbed the sand collected underneath the trapdoor a few times, it quickly gave way under the blows and began to flow down and away from the hatch in a smooth avalanche, creating an opening she could move through to explore it further. She sheathed her blade and grabbed the lamp, readying herself to close the hatch behind her – leaving it open would only invite the tide in... and that would probably only complicate things. Trap her here horribly, for example.

There were pieces of wood scattered all over. What used to be the ceiling of one deck upper from the bottom one – her point of entry, had now become the floor. It was riddled with iron hooks for lamps, she had to mind her step. Broken barrels, chests... She wondered, why was this level so full of items seemingly untouched since the time of the crash?

The scent of decay lingered in the air. Numerous fish bones were a clear hint as to at least one of its sources. Since the locals were extremely unhelpful in providing any details on the history of the wreckage, it could have been older than her, or quite the contrary. It wasn't bad enough that a mainlander was asking. She kept asking about that one wreckage, making the farmers lock up in silent fear and push their hats on their eyes as they cut conversations short. Silly superstitions. Yes, of course. A Kul Tiran ship crashed into a monastery of the Tidesages, it wasn't just a disaster, it was sacrilege in the eyes of those under the dark green banner of the Admiralty... still, the entire stigma around it did not convince her. How could they know what she knew? How could they be afraid of the place if her nightmares were beckoning her there?

Then again, she found the Tidesages to be a suspicious bunch. Starting with their very finery, to the worship of the depths. They were incredibly hush-hush about everything. Hush-hush to the point where you start hearing very loud whispers of questionable content. To Alystoria, it made perfect sense that the entire cult was a convenient disguise for the worship of all things deep and eldritch. Hiding in plain sight, they called it. It didn't take a one-in-a-generation mind to figure out that the bold imagery of eyes and cephalopod limbs, with some anchors added for a bit of maritime balance. To show that civilisation still had a grip on what lurked below. Perhaps it was her oiled grip on sanity that gave her those ideas. And yet, ever since she had made Boralus her place of residence, the nightmares didn't just make her sleep a chore. They began guiding her, only lending support to the hypotheses on the true nature of the Tidesages.

The further she moved, the creakier the boards of the upturned ceiling became. Every step was a gamble, a game of potentially losing or keeping one's limb, even if she was taking the precaution of carefully poking every board with her toes and heel before deciding to put more body weight on it. Unfortunately, the boards were not known for playing fair. The floor beneath her feet ceased to exist with an echoing roar and the last thing she managed to register before losing her consciousness, was the painful thud of her body against the stone floor.


	3. The Meeting

III

A strong, herbal smell filled her nostrils, stirring the rest of her body and mind into a tentative state of consciousness. It reminded her of tea. Just not the regular kind that was brewed at home. More the stronger, wilder stuff that her aunt used to mix from various plants she'd pick in the woods. 

Her back didn't feel stiff, some sort of cushioned material kept her separated from the ground, making it a less rude awakening. As she opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings, she realised that they became oddly... familiar. Her fingertips moved across the leathery surface she had been resting on. Brown, cracked in places, but well-maintained.

She could hear a clock ticking. An old, majestic timekeeping mechanism, every swing of its heavy pendulum carried a warning of a moment being wasted forever. There was something about the way it measured ticks and tocks that would always make her feel judged. Especially now, as her head felt heavy, and she collected her thoughts with difficulty. The sensation of her mind feeling slow, bogged down by an invisible wall... oh it was annoying, but the more she wanted to snarl at it, the more it seemed to mock and placate her into a numb state of being.

“Ah, good. You're awake,” she heard a voice speak out from somewhere in front of her. With her hand over her scars, she looked up, slowly, as if blinded by sunlight and hungover. Except she didn't recall drinking. Where had she been before this? It was all a black canvas. There was a similar couch, a mirror of the one she sat on. The two were separated by a low table. A man was sitting on the other couch. Well groomed, well dressed, with black hair slicked back, clean shaven. His features were sharp, and his hazel eyes, shielded by a pair of glasses, were awake, alert, and like a hawk's, quick to find every detail in whatever he was studying, “You're late, Alystoria.”

“My apologies, father, I was...” her mind blanked again, painfully so. It was as if any attempt at recalling information was immediately met with a deeply uncomfortable spike somewhere in the back of her mind, “I lost track of time,” she admitted. It wasn't a lie, even though she suspected it wouldn't be enough to appease him.

“Well, welcome back, I suppose,” he replied rather flatly and looked back down into his book. It must have been some light reading, for leisure and relaxation. Work was always done at a desk, with a looking glass and a notepad at the ready. Only books that were trivialities in terms of content deserved to be held in his lap, “I trust you've given my regards to aunt Grace during your stay with her,” he stated, more than asked.

“Yes, I have, father,” she replied and nodded slowly, “I had a lovely time,” she added, though the question about how her autumn break was never really came. Perhaps he wanted to know but didn't quite feel the need to ask, since she'd tell him anyway?

“Go freshen up. Dinner will be ready soon,” he commanded, looking up for a moment as he turned the pages of his book. Alystoria nodded and grabbed the edges of the couch to push herself off. She groaned and closed her eyes for a few steps, navigating through the house from memory. She was surprised that father hadn't noticed her sorry state. Have there been celebrations? Something to do with the harvest, maybe? A dance? Her mind buzzed and the headache was unrelenting. Once in the bathroom, she leaned against the washbasin and looked into the mirror. Oddly enough, her features did not betray her sorry state of being. She looked focused, awake, and without even the tiniest of shadows under her eyes that would suggest a lapse in judgement the night before.

Her scars were there. Her eyes were a bright yellow-green. She felt the beast inside her, in balance with her human side, but present. Yet father hasn't aged a day. Has he been afflicted as well? But the city, the battle... the invasion. Wasn't it that...

“Hello, gorgeous,” her musings were cut short as two freckled arms wrapped around her from behind. She could see the top of the red mane of hair just over her right shoulder as a smaller woman cuddled up to her. She smiled and leaned back so that her head would touch the woman's, “Evelyn. How did you sneak up on me?”

“A lady has her secrets,” the redhead replied and scoffed.

“Wait... why are you here? Father doesn't know!” Alystoria tensed up, she could feel Evelyn move away after the statement, “Don't be such a sour piece of candy, love. He's always known. I told him myself... Come, dinner's almost ready.”

It was their secret. Their sworn secret. Always meeting away from the prying, curious eyes. Aunt Grace knew, but keeping anything from that woman was impossible. And Alystoria didn't really mind not keeping things from her, because her aunt took things as they were. There was no unnecessary judgement, there were no sternly worded talks. Just a quiet understanding, even of a fact that Alystoria formed a habit of sneaking out to meet with Evelyn. Her father wasn't even aware of her girlfriend's existence. How could she just go out to him and tell him? Was he alright with it? They haven't even been introduced. How odd... Another pang of discomfort in the back of her mind reminded her not to think that much of it. Or think that much of anything, really.

There was an eerie echo to her footsteps on the wooden parquet floor as she made her way to the dining table and sat down, alone. After a moment, Evelyn joined her, giving Aly's knee a small pat under the table, “It's going to be fine. You'll see,” she reassured and smiled, to which Alystoria could only smile back and nod.

“Awww, look, John. Aren't these two just the most adorable?” that was a voice she didn't know. It was definitely a woman, and she sounded very pleasant. Warm, and welcoming. Alystoria looked up slowly. Blonde hair, sky blue eyes. They weren't sad, there was a spark of joy in them. That alone was deeply concerning. She wore a white, flowing dress, and held what looked like a bundle of blankets, wrapped in the shape of a cocoon.

“Don't you remember? We're here to see your little brother, Aly,” Evelyn reminded, smiling. Alystoria turned to her girlfriend and stared at her, blanking out. She suddenly remembered their brief meeting in that pirate town on the southern coast of the Eastern Kingdoms. How Evelyn kept mocking her. Saying that Aly turned out better than expected after the bite. Not so sickly any more, fortunately. She remembered the embarrassment. The fear that she would be discharged from her unit if any of them were to discover her leanings. Evelyn and her were no more. It's been years. Maybe even more than a decade? Definitely more than that. 

They were all smiling at her. Even her father was smiling at her, standing proudly at her mother's side. Their eyes were fixated on Alystoria and the Worgen felt a deep sense of danger begin to sprout in the pit of her stomach like a magic bean.

“Go on, see him,” Evelyn encouraged, giving Alystoria another pat on the knee. This one felt much more like urging. She could feel nails poke against her skin, sharp and long, like pins, like nails. She stood up, feeling warmth on her leg as a coppery scent spread in the air, making her let out a growl, stirring her beastly side to alertness, pulling it to the surface.

With every step, she tried to piece it all together. It felt wrong. So very wrong. It couldn't have been the truth. Evelyn bit her, made her into what she was. Shared the curse. They never met that night. She never came home from her autumn break. Her mother... Her mother was a mute. More importantly, and morbidly so... she had been dead for a quarter of a century now. As the realisations began to hit her, she became more aware of her surroundings. Her mother's eyes weren't blue, they were purple, glowing, in a colour that screamed like the most poisonous flowers of the Feralas jungles.

She blinked a few times, feeling tears well up in her eyes every time she tried to focus on their faces. They were blurry, distorted, pulled and contorted into grotesque shapes, different with every blink.

“Come. See. Your. Brother,” a heavy, hollow voice commanded. It was nowhere and everywhere at once, and as Alystoria limped towards whatever monstrosity masquerading as her mother, feeling blood trickle down her leg sleeve. It was as if there was a hand pushing her towards it, making sure she complied.

“The potion is wearing off,” another voice called out. Suddenly, the dining room seemed like a deep, dark, cavern to her. She tried to look around but was pushed towards her parents, with her mother holding out the bundle of blankets. Instead of a rosy face of a newborn, there was only darkness inside. A light-consuming void. And instead of cute, tiny hands, there were tendrils, uncountable, purple wisps of flesh, reaching out to grab her fingers, began climbing up her arm. The voice boomed inside her mind, “You came here seeking answers, didn't you? You came here for the truth, little fleshling? Very well... Truth you shall have.”


	4. The Madness

IV

It was a rude awakening. A harsh, unrelenting grip on her neck forced her to shake off the somnambulic nightmare, in favour of a waking one. It certainly wasn't much of an improvement. Spindly, purple fingers held her by the throat, too far from the ground for her to be even remotely comfortable. 

She looked up, flailing. A snarl left her lips when she realised that the creature holding her did not have a mouth. Instead, several tentacle-like tendrils were sprouting from its face just below the eyes, making it look as if some sort of a cephalopod attached itself to the otherwise humanoid shape. Even the name they had for those felt like a sting of a poisoned barb, piercing one's skull and scattering the thoughts, leading to a slow, painful death. K'thir.  
“Yes, keep struggling, fight me. It only makes it all the more delicious,” she could hear the creature's cackle in her mind. This k'thir must have been a man at some point, or at least he sounded like one. 

The Gilnean held onto her self-control for as long as she could. She kept the beast inside at bay, the balance between her human and wolf parts had to be maintained, especially if she wanted to rely on all of her senses and her mind, and not let her nose take the lead in the investigation. The claw-like, leathery digits held her tightly by the neck, she could feel the sharp nails of the creature pierce her pale skin. That was the moment to let the Worgen come forward. She growled and closed her eyes, wrinkling her nose. It was incredibly odd to transform when not on the ground, not feeling the familiarity of her feet becoming paws, her leg joints adjusting. In her panicked, flailing motions, even the customary wisp of dark smoke that accompanied her change into a humanoid wolf couldn't conceal the growls of pain and discomfort. This was outside what she had practised, and as her form was altered, the nails dug deeper beyond the light-grey fur, making the hold even more painful. 

The advantage, at least anatomically, was no longer on the k'thir's side. Alystoria herself was now sporting a pair of razor sharp clawed fingers, it took two fierce swipes to make the k'thir let go of her.

“Bad dog... you'll regret this,” the creature hissed at her, nursing his maimed arm for a moment as tendrils of dark energy began reknitting it into its original state. The flesh was mended, but the robe was permanently cut open. There had to be a way to kill it. There was always a way.

Alystoria soon learned what the k'thir meant with regretting her actions. The Worgen landed on the floor, the knee that was injured in her dreamlike vision took the brunt of her weight, making the woman howl in pain. She snarled again and swiped her claws around in blind anger, more to defend herself desperately against any incoming blows rather than to deliberately damage the opponent.

The dark, heavy laugh rang out in her mind again, mocking her, leaking a tone of superiority, “I told you it would hurt... Why do you keep struggling? Why did you come here? To find your doom?”

“I want you out of my head! I'll have you out of my head!” Alystoria growled and leapt forward, drawing her daggers in the meantime. They were crafted specifically for her, of Kaldorei make. And though obtaining them was a quest and a half, in three literal parts, she was always thankful that Sentinel Mooncrow pushed her to its completion. The blades saw no moonlight to reflect its majestic light, not in the depths of the monastery, dark, damp, and musty. Perhaps the Goddess Elune wouldn't favour Alystoria's blades in this fight. Then again, where was she when her people burned...?

The leap seemed like half an eternity, especially considering how quickly the k'thir moved out of her way, and Alystoria considered herself to be quick on her feat, as she had proven many times with swift kills during her military career. 

Her surroundings. If the enemy had some sort of advantage over her, it was always the circumstance that helped. A vantage point, using the possible furniture, anything, really, to make the opponent's life more difficult. Her feet weren't the only quick part. She looked around, trying to make sense of her environment. The halls were dark, devoid of lit torches, the sconces were covered in a combination of dust and old oil, a nightmare to clean, should anyone ever attempt it.

She could see the ancient, faded sandstone that was the building material, her Worgen eyes adapted to the dark, but there were no clear hints as to where to run. The room was square, there were four doorways leading into what seemed like long, equally dark corridors. Her ears perked up and she leaned back, with her feet moving away from the source of the sound almost instinctively and she saw the spindly form of the k'thir leap by, almost fly, with claws outstretched. It would have tackled and pinned her to the ground were it not for the Worgen reflexes helping her dodge.

With a growl, she sought a different playing ground. Something, anything to make this creature's chances of mercilessly gutting her at least a bit less successful. With her daggers put away for the moment, Alystoria resorted to dropping on all fours before she bolted into the hallway that was the nearest to her. She was capable of racing galloping horses and charging nightsabers like this, so the k'thir would have to sweat to catch up with her. She hoped that the corridor was long enough to create sufficient space between them.

“You can run all you want... But is it really me you're running from? Look at you. Death would be a mercy...” the voice was close enough to reverberate in her mind, making her snarl and snap her jaws at the air. She kept running, her pace wild and her tongue lolling out as she began panting, fuelled by pain, fuel, and anger in equal parts. It was a split second of a realisation that there was something in the darkness, something in the way. A door. Instead of planting into it muzzle first, Alystoria rose from her four-limbed sprint and turned her body to barge into the door with her shoulder.

She found herself almost blinded by the snow outside. She looked behind her, the door was there, a lone display of damp boards nailed together. The monastery disappeared. Only for the time being, something told her. This time she was almost painfully aware of her mind being tested. This must have been a trick of sorts. She began moving in the snow, simply going forward, until she found a path. The Worgen was dressed for wind and rain, not snow, but her fur provided enough warm to keep her from simply collapsing in the endless plains of white fluff.

“Bit of a blunder there, eh?” she could hear a voice right next to her. The pine green eyes, the black hair and a neatly styled moustache that added much needed gravitas to his modest frame. Isaac. It was Isaac Emsworth, “Don't worry, you'll be fine with the unit. I admit, it's nice to have someone who's not a Night Elf to talk to. Another Gilnean,” he smiled. Even though they would be the perfect target for gossip for being, at that time, the only female and male Gilneans in the unit respectively, their persuasions made it impossible for that to come true. Isaac was a horrible gossip. And the best gossip ever. Discussing all the latest tea with him was always refreshing, and a moment to chuckle sensibly and leave all the atrocities of wars and fighting behind. Good, old Isaac... But she knew it wasn't him. A memory was nice, it warmed her heart for a moment, a reminder of a dear friendship that dissolved over time, much like anything in her life that was worthy of attention. 

“Remember, Allie. Never forget, never surrender,” Isaac saluted at her, then waved, and slowly became translucent, like a ghost. She remembered. Her first mission with the unit, they were going to Winterspring to investigate storms of magical nature. Something old, and angry was causing them, and it definitely wasn't mother nature. She remembered stumbling upon items on the way to the epicentre of the magic. Ancient Kaldorei trinkets, journals, fragments of nightsaber saddles. These were ghosts of the Night Elves that lived millennia ago. Those who served their vain, illustrious queen Azshara. That is, before everything went down the drain. Or rather, deep into the ocean.

The shriek that filled her long, pointy wolf-like ears was beyond painful. She fell to her knees yet again, covering her head. The spirits were standing over her and she knew it. Their anger was icy, there was no mercy, no understanding in them. She felt a kick to her side and rolled to her back, seeing double for a few moments as she tried to catch her breath. She shielded herself as claws of ice began working away at her armour and her muzzle, making the blood in her veins begin to freeze. Not like this. Alystoria leapt back to her feet with unnatural grace and drew her blades again, slicing through the spirits. Unsurprisingly, the weapon had no effect, apart from their surprised stares and looks of indignation. And at that moment, she recalled more.

“We never fought. You lie, we never fought. There was no need to draw arms. I found your stories, your trinkets of old. I made you realise that your time was long due,” she said to the spirits, with her clawed hand raised in a soothing motion, “Go. Go as you did that day. Please...”

Perhaps it was the vulnerability in her voice. Perhaps it was the determination and knowledge of what was true, of what had occurred that made the ghosts look at her with a certain... understanding.

“Ha! That was easy, perhaps too easy, even. Nourishing, yes...” the voice sounded inside her mind again. She looked around, frowning. There was nothing but snow surrounding her. Out of nowhere, a blast of energy came her way, pushing her far and onto her back. 

Instead of landing in the snow, she found herself raising orange dust as she hit the ground on a sandy path. Mountains surrounded her, the sky was high up. She could see the peaks, reaching up to touch the clouds, the realisation took her a moment. Stonetalon, she was in Stonetalon. She hated that place. She tried to remind herself that not everything about it was bad...

“Again. Get up and try again. A sword is a much more versatile weapon than that sickle you've got. It has range, it can be used in one, or two hands. It can slash, stab, and deflect. Remember what I told you about the strong point and the weak point of a blade,” she looked at a gauntleted hand, reaching out to help her stand. This time she recognised the voice of her instructor, Ethylea. A tall Night elf who kept her white hair braided, with a bluish glow to her eyes. There was no weapon she couldn't handle. Sadly, despite her attempts to modernise the way the Sentinels approached their enemies, her ideas remained unheard in the traditional Kaldorei society. She was a good teacher.

Alystoria rose from the ground, she didn't bother dusting herself off. She picked up the sword and looked at it for a moment, pensive. Study your enemy. Find their weak point. Most fights are over in seconds. Nourishing, the k'thir said. Were her memories, her emotions, her pain... Was she simply fodder for the monster that haunted her dreams and her waking hours? The images of the battles were creeping up on her, crawling somewhere from the back of her head to her consciousness, slowly but surely. The pouring darkness, the whispers, the ghosts in the woods, of a man who had no eyes, no ears, she tried to help him, but he disappeared. The enemy ships collapsed, when the armies far, far away succeeded in bringing down their commander. It was as if they were puppets with suddenly cut strings. Except the puppets themselves were hulking masses of steel and unholy energies powering them up.

She hated even flying over Stonetalon after spending a week there, trapped with darkness and insanity. That place was like a bad rash. Irritating, painful, and hard to wash off, even after a few honest attempts. But now it had a face. An ugly, leathery face, half-full of tentacles. And if something has a head, it can be decapitated. Alystoria lowered the sword and closed her eyes. She couldn't trust them, not in here. Perhaps it was time to lean on her other senses. She could smell her own blood. It was distracting, and it reminded her that she started this fight on uneven ground, but as long as most of the crimson liquid remained inside, she still had a chance. Her ears twitched, wary of any small rustles, seemingly insignificant creaks or shuffles. He could be anywhere.

Stonetalon Mountains had a dusty smell to them, but there was always a pleasant breeze there, a freshness. Her nose couldn't be fooled so easily. She was still in the monastery, and perhaps her opponent was in the very same room. Watching her struggle, putting on mask after mask to gain her trust and then burn it down in a blow served without mercy.

There it was. The rustling of the robe. Quick, but not quick enough to dodge a diagonal slash of her blade. She could feel a warm, sticky spray of the creature's blood on her chest. It shrieked in anger and sent her against a wall with another of its tricks. The room became dark, empty and dusty yet again, but this time the illusion faded, and she could see again. The long, spindly hands kept coming at her with clawing motions, and she kept parrying and deflecting, creating cuts and gashes in them. It almost seemed that they began to heal slower, as if there were so many of them that the creature finally began to be weakened. Could it be? Was there still hope?

Alystoria felt the small heel of her boot against a door frame. And with another parry, the world went up in flames. “You will not escape. Not this time. You will burn with the rest of these fools!” the k'thir hissed at her, angered enough to continue his desperate attacks. It wanted pain, it wanted nourishment, and the Worgen's moment of composure wasn't providing any. Fire, however, was a good way of eliciting utmost terror in the Gilnean. Especially the fire that consumed the great tree, Teldrassil. She could hear them. Elves, Gilneans, afflicted or not, screaming for help. Some were trapped under collapsed buildings.  
Others were rolling around trying to put themselves out. There were children, lost and unable to find their parents, or to recognise their charred remains any more. She remembered the guilt. She couldn't save enough people. Her panicked mind had enough reason with it to grab a sack of potatoes and attach it to her hippogryph before the animal became so afraid that it forced her to leave. The next weeks were deathly quiet. Hiding in the woods, taking out undead patrols in the most ingenious, the most cruel of ways, considering the limited resources. The potatoes came in handy, for sure, but they were a constant reminder of her complete and utter failure. Of not being able to do more. She saw the k'thir close his eyes in a moment of ecstasy. Her regret and remorse were like the juiciest morsels for him. He raised his hand, a purplish-black ball of energy began forming at the tip of his finger, “You've failed them. You've tried and for what? A soldier girl, trying to save the world... and whom did you save? A sack of potatoes. Pathetic.”

She sliced through the air with all the fury she could muster. She had enough. Enough of guilt, enough of being pinned to the ground and made to crawl by the same scenes playing in her mind over and over again. She couldn't go back. She couldn't fix it. If she wanted to make any amends, she'd have to start with her mind. And that alone was a momentous task. Her blade connected with the k'thir's neck and for a moment she could see surprise in the red eyes as the strength of her blow cut deep and deadly, removing the creature's head once and for all. It rolled onto the floor for a moment, the tentacles stopped it from being a good ball. The inert body of the k'thir dropped to its knees and then to the side without so much as a word. It didn't feel like a victory, but it felt... clearer. Her mind regained some measure of sharpness, now that the k'thir no longer had a hold on her. But there was still something. How did it know? How could it know? So much about her... What secrets did it hold?

Alystoria dropped the blade and knelt down by the lifeless corpse to search it. Bags of ingredients, writings in a language that was impossible to comprehend, curved daggers... and a mirror. It looked old, and the handle was very simple, made of polished wood. The Worgen tilted her head to the side and picked it up, driven by curiosity. Why on earth would a k'thir need a mirror?

Immediately, she was granted an image. A large, dark forest, where there was so little light that the moss was red in colour, and the gangly, spiralling branches of the looming trees looked like arms of witches, reaching out to steal away those who dared wander in. She could almost feel a certain... hunger when looking at the mirror. A need to hunt. A need to kill. An urge that was unstoppable and uncontrollable, burning all over her entire form.

There was a man on a horse. He had a top hat, a rifle resting against the saddle, dressed well, in a Gilnean fashion, so familiar to her. The image moved closer and closer to him until whoever was running leapt at him, claws first, throwing him off of his horse. The animal neighed in terror and ran away deeper into the woods, while the man stared at her in complete and utter terror, “Please, no... no!” he begged for his life, he called names, perhaps of his family, perhaps of loved ones, friends. It didn't matter to the hungry wolf. It tore into his throat and rid him of life as if he were nothing.

There was something about that image... the light-grey fur on the Worgen's claws. It looked like hers. And the way the hunting beast growled... it sounded like her. It was her first kill. The mirror then became a swirl of faces, each of them contorted in pain. Undead, Orcs, Humans on the wrong side, Quillboar, Elves of the kind that weren't with the Alliance... A myriad of faces, just to remind her every single soul she sent on its way. Suddenly, the image faded. The mirror reflected a bloodied muzzle of a drooling, snarling beast. It was her. It was who she was. That was her truth. In rage, she threw the mirror against the wall, shattering it before it could show her anything else. 

“How do you like your truth?” the voice in her mind was fading. Whatever unholy energy was keeping the k'thir alive was weakening, to the point where only faint whispers came, but no more words, until only silence remained.

With a ferocious snarl, she leapt towards the corpse, claws first. What difference would it make? A killer was a killer. Once and for all. He proved her point. What if the mirror could show her the path to salvation? It was too late. She failed. Again.

From that night onwards, the farmers who lived and worked the land close to the northern coast of Stormsong Valley feared not the ghosts of the cursed monastery, but the bone-chilling howls of despair coming from the ruin. They pierced the hearts of the bravest men with notes of deep, unending terror. The terror of knowing oneself.


End file.
